by Ganelle Davis

Created on: August 12, 2009

I missed my opportunity to forgive my father. He was dying from Leukemia. The once loud boisterous man, was now gaunt and frail. I was no longer affected by his verbal abuse because his voice was now but a whisper. There would be no more drunken declarations of my non importance or the bother it was to take care of me. I was a grown woman now and on my own.

I had left my home in a huff, vowing never to return. Now this same man who gave me the ultimatum was asking me to return home. My heart had grown cold. I knew I could no longer endure the abuse. I was now seeking tranquility, by any means necessary. If this meant I was selfish,although I had convinced myself before saying ,"no". I was the same person who had been told all of her life, what a bother I had been.

The memories flooded my mind. I could not forget , being in an apartment alone with a bag of Cheeto's that I crushed into the carpet with my feet. I knew i would be in trouble, i wanted to go back to the only home ,i knew of, my grandparents home. Living with an alcoholic when I was six was a tumultuous time in my life. I learned survival. I learned to survive on a bag of Cheeto's because if I did not finish the food , my father had so painstakingly prepared for me. He would go into a rage and threaten to shove his fist down my throat to get me to eat. I gorged myself on chips and always told him, he did not have to fix dinner, because I was much too full to eat. I had wanted to go back to my grandparents home, where the dinners were pleasant and no hostility to upset my stomach before I ate. I was never told ,"it cost too much to feed me or what a bother I was." To this day, those images make me lose my appetite.

I do understand now,maybe much too late. Cooking for me was the only way my father may have known to show his love. His alcoholism made him inadequate to provide for me and I now realize all of his frustrations may have been taken out on me. I'm fifty one years old, certainly a six year old could not discern or rationalize what was going on then.

My father's girlfriend was also an alcoholic and many more times, than I care to remember. I heard her say, "Just leave her here, she will be fine.". She placed the bag of Cheeto's in my lap. i sat there and ate them one by one. The monotony of the same taste and the cheesy fingers and being home alone welled up a resentment in me that caused me to sprinkle the Cheeto's on the carpet.

Hours had passed, I had been warned

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